


The Spirit of Liberty

by KChan88



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-20
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2018-01-16 09:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1343059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KChan88/pseuds/KChan88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: On Christmas night 1776, the Amis sit near the shores of the Delaware River in the ranks of George Washington’s Continental Army. Defeat tinges the air as the group of friends tries to hold on to each other and to their hope for victory and independence despite their weariness and the chill seeping into their bones. Thomas Paine’s words ring through the air, filling them with warmth, with passion, and hopefully, leading them towards victory at the Battle of Trenton.</p>
<p>Les Mis American Revolutionary War AU for Les Mis Across History</p>
<p> </p>
<p>"These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman." ~ Thomas Paine</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Spirit of Liberty

**Author's Note:**

> With awesome art by the lovely eccecorinna on tumblr here: http://eccecorinna.tumblr.com/post/79988218158/the-spirit-of-liberty#tumblr_notes

**McKonkey’s Ferry near Trenton, New Jersey: December 25, 1776**

Enjolras feels winter biting into the air as a particularly nasty gust of wind blows past, the moisture from this morning’s snow fall contained within it, heavy and cold. The chill mixes with the deflated sense of belief in the air, the clouds covering any hope of the sun as it sets. He kicks at the layer of snow by his feet, taking a spoonful of his pepper-hot soup. He watches as Valjean, the soldier assigned to help the quartermaster, doles out soup to the other men in the regiment after a long day marching, and soon, Enjolras suspects, they will be crossing the Delaware River into battle. Valjean was a quiet man, a mysterious one who spent most of his time writing letters to his daughter Cosette back in Massachusetts. He wasn’t from Boston, which was Enjolras’ own home, and was apparently originally from Georgia, but that was all anyone truly knew about him.

It is bone-chilling cold and the anxiety of the probable battle to come is thick and swirling in the air, yet Valjean has a smile. There’s worry behind his eyes, but it’s scarcely visible. Enjolras reaches down with his free hand to rub the bottom of his aching, throbbing feet, careful to avoid the burgeoning blister

“All right, Enjolras?” Valjean asks, re-filling Enjolras’ bowl even though seconds were not common.

“I’m grateful to not be marching for a bit,” Enjolras says, nodding his head in thanks and returning Valjean’s offered smile. “And you, sir?”

“Cold,” Valjean says with a soft chuckle. His gaze jumps down to the paper sticking out of Enjolras’ coat pocket. “Still carrying Paine’s  _Common Sense_ around, I see. I hear he might be back among us tonight.”

Enjolras’ ears perk up the news about Thomas Paine: when he’d first enlisted, he’d never even dreamed he’d be among the same troops as the man himself, a man he so admired ever since he first got his hands on  _Common Sense_.

“It reminds me why I’m here,” Enjolras says, feeling something swell in his chest. “What we’re fighting for. My friend Combeferre has pages from an old  _Poor Richard’s Almanac_  in his pocket: he finds Benjamin Franklin inspiring, so it helps on the difficult days. He’s from Pennsylvania, you see.”

“An excellent strategy my lad, on both your parts,” Valjean says, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder as he moves to continue down the line of men perched on the ground. “The others will need a fellow with such belief as you to look to.”

He goes before Enjolras can respond, and after a moment Enjolras feels two weights sit down on either side of him.

“Well,” Courfeyrac says with a sigh, his Virginia accent audible beneath the layers of exhaustion. “I am rather glad we have this tonight instead of firecake. Flour and water don’t do much for the taste-buds, do they?”

“No,” Combeferre answers, taking the first tentative sip of his. “But they do fill the stomach, at least.” He turns to Enjolras. “What was Valjean speaking to you about?”

“Nothing in particular,” Enjolras answers, draining the last of his soup. “He mentioned the  _Common Sense_  pamphlet in my pocket. He’s a bit of an enigma, but I admire him, even if I’m not entirely sure why. He was telling me just the other day that he met John Adams once, when he went to enlist. I’d told him I’d have jumped at the chance to speak with John Adams.”

“Really, he met Adams?” Combeferre asks, raising his eyebrows in interest. “I’ve heard Adams is an inspiring speaker, where Jefferson is the better writer. Though I know you have a penchant for Adams, Enjolras, given your fiery Boston roots,” he says, winking, a dry teasing in his voice that lifts Enjolras’ spirits a bit. “And I think Courfeyrac goes around daily reminding us that the man who wrote the Declaration is from his home colony. But I think Valjean exudes a sort of quiet patriotism that’s running low among a significant portion of the men,” he remarks. “I suspect that is likely why you admire him, why we all do. He is always kind as well, and he seems to have taken a liking to the nine of us,” he says, watching as their fellow friends come to sit near them, waving in greeting, bowls of soup in hand.

Enjolras surveys them all they chatter and eat their soup. He’d had a few friends back home in Boston, but those relationships were nothing like the bonds he’s forged here in the Continental army with these young men. Enjolras, Prouvaire, and Courfeyrac are the youngest at nineteen, and Bahorel the oldest at five and twenty. It’s been a year and a half since Enjolras enlisted, and despite the conditions, despite his parents’ worries and the slight guilt he feels at joining despite their protests for his safety, he cannot look back, not in the face of this fight.

The wind blows his hair in his face again and he brushes it back in aggravation, his eyes roving over his friends. Bossuet’s shoes are nearly crumbled away, and blood from blisters smears on the leather of Joly’s own worn pair. Feuilly looks thinner than ever, and he scrapes the bottom of his bowl for any last remaining scraps of soup. Bandages wrap around Prouvaire’s ankle from where he sprained it, as well as around Bahorel’s arm from the scrape of a bayonet during battle. The purple streaks under Grantaire’s eyes are prominent even from where he sits a few feet away from Enjolras next to Joly and Bossuet. He doesn’t sleep well, Enjolras knows, because of nightmares brought on by all the horror they’ve seen in battle. He’d been asleep next to Enjolras a few nights ago and woke Enjolras up with his shouting, drenched in sweat even in the freezing night air. It took a half hour for Enjolras to calm him, relying on whispers, a gentle touch, and a firm reassurance that he’d only been dreaming. 

“Well,” Courfeyrac says, finishing off his soup, watching as General Washington goes into his tent off in the distance. “I know I’ll be enlisting again at the end of the year, even though my parents do beg me to come home in their letters.” He frowns, anxiety mixing in with the usual spark in his eyes.

Combeferre reaches across Enjolras to squeeze Courfeyrac’s arm, and Enjolras turns, smiling ever so slightly, hoping to reassure the man beside him, who has fast become like a brother.

“My father was dumping tea into the harbor with the best of them,” Enjolras says, recalling the memory with fondness and fire. “My family spoke of independence when it was still considered insane. Yet my father and my mother both beg me to come home as well. It is hard to deny them, but…”

“We cannot yet give up,” Feuilly finishes for him, joining the conversation. He smiles at Enjolras then drops his eyes down, no doubt thinking of the younger sister he left in the care of friends, as both of their parents are deceased. “Far too many men are disheartened and talk of leaving, and more cannot join their ranks. Or we shall be even more outnumbered.”

“Yes,” Enjolras replies, firm, grasping Feuilly’s hand for a moment in solidarity and empathy. “You express my thoughts exactly. I have heard talk that there may be some assistance from the French, and I am certainly hoping that comes through. The red coats have their own soldiers as well as the Hessian mercenaries, and I think having supplements to our men would be like a breath of fresh air.”

The wind gusts again, once more blowing Enjolras’ hair into his eyes. It’s been months since he’s cut it, and it has grown long and sometimes unwieldy.

“Would you like me to put it back for you?” Combeferre asks. “I watched my sisters often enough, I believe I can braid it so that it won’t constantly fall in your eyes.”

Enjolras considers for a moment, turning to look at Combeferre, seeing shadowy images of the three younger sisters he speaks of often forming in his eyes. He misses them, Enjolras knows. Greatly.

“I leave my unruly hair in your capable hands,” Enjolras replies.

“I’m not sure how capable they are,” Combeferre answers, chuckling, and the sound melts away some of the cold inching deep into Enjolras’ bones: the cold of winter, the cold, creeping sensation of defeat in the air.

They’ve seen such horror in battle, such blood and death and loss, that the smallest ounce of cheer warms him, and he protects the heated ball of hope residing in his chest with every breath he takes, breaking pieces off and sharing them whenever he can, even if it means there’s merely a sliver left for himself.

“But I shall certainly do my best,” Combeferre continues, running his fingers through Enjolras’ tangled hair. “You’ve done a job on yourself here with these curls.”

“Like the halo of the archangel Michael himself,” Courfeyrac teases, much to the amusement and laughter of others. Enjolras tries to frown but can’t really manage it, reaching out to swat at his friend’s arm.

“Boys,” Combeferre chides, lips flickering upward, voice deep with a dramatized reprimand. “I can’t do this with Enjolras swinging about.”

“I am not a  _boy_ ,” Courfeyrac says, miffed. “I am a full-grown man, if you please.”

Combeferre laughs, shaking his head and paying Courfeyrac’s protests no mind, busying himself separating Enjolras’ hair into three sections. The sensation strongly reminds Enjolras of his childhood days when his mother would brush his hair, as he insisted on keeping it long. A rush of melancholy floods through his veins, clearing away the icicle chill but washing him in a sadness he has so long avoided. He must focus on the war, on doing whatever he can to help win it, on helping his friends in the harshest hours when they have marched for what seems days on end and their feet are raw and bleeding. He must fight.

He must  _survive_.

“You’re tense,” Combeferre observes, his fingers working through the strands and braiding them tightly together. “What’s the matter?”

At the question Enjolras feels something in him ease ever so much. Two years his senior and the first person he met in the army, Combeferre is like an older brother and friend mixed together. He debates with Enjolras, challenges him. They inspire and comfort each other, and mixed together with Courfeyrac’s self-proclaimed ‘diabolic beauty of the mind,’ they manage to keep the darkness at bay and hold onto the light, to the revolution they believe in, the independence they crave.

“I was thinking of my mother,” Enjolras admits. “I want to be here, and I do not wish to leave until either the war ends or I reach my death, but I know my mother and father worry over me. I am their only son, and I wonder, sometimes if it was selfish of me…”

“Stop right there,” Combeferre says, coming to the end of the braid and tying it with a piece of spare cloth.

Enjolras turns, raising his eyebrows. “Are you General Washington all of sudden, ordering me about?”

Combeferre quirks a single eyebrow in response, effectively silencing Enjolras.

“Were you sitting at home, safe with your family, would you not being saying you were selfish also, for not being out on the battlefield, risking your life for the independence of your homeland?” Combeferre asks.

“Yes?” Enjolras says phrasing it as a question, unable to form any sort of argument in the face of this logic, a logic he uses so often that of course Combeferre would see fit to use it against him in his moments of irrationality.

“We all make decisions,” Combeferre says, softer now as he slides over to sit next to Enjolras. “You are not here to gain some kind of glory or fame: you are here to fight for a cause, for your country, for our people. Rest easy, my friend.”

Enjolras sighs, unable to resist a smile as Combeferre grasps his shoulder.

“You know me so well,” Enjolras says. “It astounds me, really. It astounds me with all of you.”

“A friendship given to us by God himself, perhaps,” Combeferre answers, unceasingly warm. “I have never known such boundless affection and respect, such a bond, in my life.”

Enjolras grasps Combeferre’s hand, holding onto it for a moment.

“We will look out for each other in battle against the Hessians in Trenton, if that is where we are headed,” Enjolras says, feeling the emotion tangle in his throat. “All of us.”

“Yes,” Combeferre says, a slight wetness around his eyes. “Yes.”

Both look over to their friends, where Grantaire and Courfeyrac are telling a story of some kind, complete with sweeping hand gestures, and Enjolras listens to each of his friends laugh, marveling at the differences between them. Bahorel laughs first, the sound booming out across the area, causing several other soldiers to look in his direction. Joly snorts as he laughs, clapping a hand over his mouth when he hears it, causing Bossuet to laugh in response. Feuilly laughs quietly, the sound soft and understated, but there is a gleam of amusement in his eyes. Prouvaire’s laugh, Enjolras muses, sounds like music, the notes pouring forth on the staff of the air, soft at first and then growing in sound. Courfeyrac laughs, the sounds of his friends’ laughter contagious to him. Grantaire lets out a single, hoarse sounding laugh, but it is genuine, devoid of any mask.

They all look up at the sound of General Washington and several other commanding officers approaching. When Enjolras looks closer, he sees Thomas Paine is with them, returned just as Valjean said. All eyes fix on them as the wind blows harsher, stabbing at them like ice-needles. Paine went to Philadelphia to have a pamphlet published, they are told, and now they are going to hear some of it read. Enjolras hears some of the men murmuring, because what can words do on the eve of battle for a bedraggled, weary rebel army?

But Enjolras could tell them surely as Jean Prouvaire: words have power, and the moment he hears Paine’s voice break through the cold, he’s reminded of that truth.

_These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman._

Above them, a single cloud breaks away, a small ray of the setting sun bursting through and casting down into the middle of the group of soldiers. Enjolras watches Prouvaire look up at it, the light illuminating the growing fervor on his friend’s face. Beside him, a smile slowly creeps onto Courfeyrac’s face

_Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph. What we obtain too cheap, we esteem too lightly: it is dearness only that gives everything its value. Heaven knows how to put a proper price upon its goods; and it would be strange indeed if so celestial an article as freedom should not be highly rated. Britain, with an army to enforce her tyranny, has declared that she has a right (not only to tax) but “to bind us in all cases whatsoever,” and if being bound in that manner, is not slavery, then is there not such a thing as slavery upon earth. Even the expression is impious; for so unlimited a power can belong only to God._

Another cloud moves away as the sun sinks, a streak of orange spraying across the inky blue-grey sky, and Enjolras’ heart lifts back into its normal station and then higher and higher still until he feels as if it might burst out, pushing away his melancholy and replacing it with a passion and a nerve so deep it runs through his veins and into his soul, spilling over.

Hell, he considers, is not easily conquered, and nor is tyranny.

But neither, he reminds himself, is the spirit of liberty. The spirit of revolution. The spirit of friendship.

This is _his_  country. This is  _his_  America. And he will fight for it.


End file.
